by Mark Anthony
Grace didn't glance over her shoulder, but she imagined Paladus and the rest of her force were in view by now. She was right, given the reaction of the knights. They shifted in their saddles, hands on the hilts of their swords.
“Your words are curious,” their leader said. “For we have seen only servants of evil drawn northward these days. And there is another who lays claim to the throne of Malachor.”
Grace allowed herself a sharp smile. “I bet he doesn't have this.”
With a smooth motion—and silently thanking Beltan and Durge for their lessons in swordsmanship—she drew Fellring from its scabbard and held it aloft. The blade caught the morning light, and the many runes shone as if molten.
Audible gasps escaped the visors of the knights.
“So the tales are true,” the leader said. “Fellring has been forged anew.”
Grace sheathed the sword again. “You'd better believe it. And I'm heading north not to serve evil, but to destroy it.”
“Those are strong words. But if King Ulther's sword is whole once more, then perhaps the other tales I have heard of it are true as well. It is said the sword has been seized wrongfully by a usurper, and that it has been cursed by magic so that the rightful heir of Malachor cannot touch it.”
“Really? It wouldn't be much of a sword if it could be cursed so easily.”
“And are you not a most powerful witch, Lady Grace?”
She frowned at the knight. “Do I know you?”
“You knew of me once, I believe, as I knew of you.”
The knight hesitated, then lifted a gauntleted hand and raised the visor of his helm. He was older than she would have thought, his face deeply grooved, his mustaches streaked with gray. However, there was no mistaking the aura of strength about him. Age had hardened him, not made him weak.
“Sir Vedarr!” Durge urged Blackalock forward, bringing the charger alongside Shandis. “Long have I wondered what became of you since the knights of Embarr were recalled from the Order of Malachor.”
That was how he knew her. Sir Vedarr had led the Order of Malachor after its founding just over a year ago. Only then King Sorrin withdrew his knights, and the Order fell apart.
“We had feared the Onyx Knights and the Cult of the Raven were in control of Embarr,” Durge said. “Surely this is good news to come upon you here.”
“I fear it is not.” Vedarr's brown eyes were sorrowful. “While I will have to think on it, it may be I can let Lady Grace continue on her journey, for I have been given no orders concerning her. Regardless, you must come with us, Sir Durge of Stonebreak.”
His words struck Grace like a slap. “What are you talking about? What do you want with Durge?”
Vedarr worked his jaw, as if chewing over the words before deciding what to speak. “Our present mission is to ride across the Dominion in search of traitors to the king, and to bring them back to Barrsunder.”
“Traitors?” Tarus said, clenching his hand into a fist. “This is madness. Durge is no traitor. He's the most loyal man I've ever met.”
Vedarr gave the red-haired knight a hard look. “And loyal to whom?”
Grace cast a frightened look at Durge. “I know what he's talking about. We learned about it in Seawatch, only I never told you, Durge. I was so selfish—I was thinking only of myself, and how much I needed you.”
Durge's brown eyes were thoughtful. “What did you not tell me, Your Majesty?”
“His Majesty, King Sorrin, recalled all his knights to Barrsunder months ago,” Vedarr said. “Those who have not complied have been branded traitors to the Dominion. It is our mission to find those who have refused the king's call. We have found a few. And now we have come upon another.”
Master Graedin cast a startled look at Durge. “What is the punishment for treason?”
“Death,” Durge said softly.
“So is that why you painted skulls on your shields?” Lursa guided her donkey forward. There was fear on her face, but defiance as well.
Vedarr glared at her. “This does not concern you, girl.”
“All life concerns me. Can you not see I am a witch even as Lady Grace is? And there are many more of my sisters just behind, riding toward us even at this moment.”
The other five Embarrans had raised their visors, and now they exchanged uneasy glances. However, Vedarr's stony expression did not falter.
“I say again, why do you wear a sigil of death?”
“Because,” Vedarr said, “we are Death Knights, or at least so King Sorrin chooses to call us. It is by his command we carry these shields.”
For a moment Vedarr's imperturbable facade cracked, and a recognizable emotion shone in his eyes. It was shame. However, a moment later it was gone.
“Sorrin is completely mad now, isn't he?” Tarus said, shaking his head. “He thinks he can cheat death by pretending to serve it. So he has his men paint skulls on their shields and calls them Death Knights.” His lip curled in disgust. “By the blood of the Bull, sir, how can you bear it?”
Vedarr thrust a finger at Tarus. “You will hold your tongue, Knight of Calavan. It is not for you to question the will of my king.”
“No, it is for you to do that,” Tarus said, his voice edging into a sneer. He was playing a dangerous game, but Grace couldn't think of another tactic. “Only you are too old or too weak or too cowardly to do so. So instead you ride about the land on the whim of a madman while the Onyx Knights control your lord like a puppet on a string and the Raven Cult leads your people to their doom.”
The other Embarran knights muttered angry words. Vedarr pounded his thigh with a fist. “I should have your head for those impudent words, Sir Knight, but I will give you all one more chance, though you deserve it not. Deliver Sir Durge to me now, and I will let you ride on if you swear to make straight for the northern border of the Dominion.”
Durge nodded. “So be it.” He started to guide Blackalock forward.
“Hold, Sir Durge,” Grace said. In an instant fear fled, replaced by cold fury. There was so much that terrified her, so many things of which she was uncertain, but there was one thing she was utterly sure of: No one was going to take Durge from her while he still had time left. No one.
Durge gazed back at her, brown eyes startled. “Your Majesty, I beg you. It is the only way. They will let you ride north if I go with them. It is imperative you reach Shadowsdeep.” He turned and started again toward the Embarrans.
“I said hold, Sir Durge. That's an order. Or have you forgotten the oath you swore to me?”
This time, when he looked back, his expression was one of horror. “Never, Your Majesty. With every beat of my heart I have served you and only you. Yet again I beg you, you must let me do this thing.”
To her astonishment, Grace found herself smiling. But then, fear was impossible when you knew what you were doing was utterly and truly right.
“No, Durge. I will not let you go, not for all the knights in Embarr. You belong at my side and nowhere else.”
As he gazed at her, an array of emotions passed across his face. Shock, then outrage, then finally wonder. His drooping mustaches twitched, almost as if they hid a smile.
“As you wish it, Your Majesty,” he said, and he guided Blackalock back to stand beside her horse.
Vedarr's gaze was hard, though not without pity. “You have made a dire mistake, Sir Durge.”
“No,” Durge said. “I nearly did, but I have been saved from it by the grace and goodness of my queen. And if you are yet even a shadow of the strong and wise man I once knew, Sir Vedarr, you would allow her to save you as well.”
This seemed to leave Vedarr at a loss of words, and the knights behind him exchanged confused glances. At that moment, Paladus came riding up the slope. The army had come to a halt fifty yards away.
“Do we fight this day, Your Majesty?” Paladus said. There was an eager gleam in his eyes.
“I don't know,” Grace said, directing her gaze at Sir Vedarr. “Do we?”
> The air was utterly still, as if frozen by the tension that hung between them. One move, and everything would shatter.
“We have our orders,” Vedarr said. “And we are loyal to our king. We know what we must do.”
Behind him, his men shifted in their saddles. Their expressions were less certain than Vedarr's, but it was clear they would not defy him. Grace knew she had to say something, but Sir Tarus was faster.
“Think, Sir Vedarr,” the red-haired knight said. “For a moment don't simply follow orders, but think about what you're doing. You've seen Fellring with your own eyes. Her Majesty Grace is the queen of Malachor. She is above the rulers of all the Dominions, including your king.”
Vedarr pressed a fist to his brow. “Stop it,” he said, his voice edging into a hiss. “Do not do this to me, Sir Knight. Do not ask me to give up my oath of loyalty.”
“I ask you to give up nothing save madness. You speak of loyalty. What of your king's loyalty to you, to your Dominion? Has he not betrayed you all by casting his lot with the Onyx Knights?” He gestured to Grace. “And here before you is the queen of us all. Is your loyalty not ultimately to her?”
Vedarr shook his head. “If she were the queen . . . perhaps, if she were truly the queen. But how do I know it is true? How can we be certain this is the right thing?”
Before Tarus could speak again, a stunning and impossible thing happened.
Durge laughed.
The knight threw his head back, gazed at the sky, and laughed. It was a deep, rich, booming sound—like the toll of a bronze bell. His body shook with the laughter, and he held his hand to his side as if it would split. All of them stared at the Embarran, mouths agape. He could not have shocked them more than if he had suddenly sprouted wings and flown into the sky. At last his laughter ceased, though his smile did not, and he wiped his eyes as he spoke.
“You search for certainty, Sir Vedarr,” Durge said. “That is hard quarry to hunt, but I will tell you what you can be certain of.” He slipped from the back of his horse and stood on the frozen ground between the two armies. “You can be certain there is no woman or man in all the world as strong, as wise, and as good as Lady Grace. You can be certain that the blade she carries is indeed Fellring, King Ulther's sword forged again, and that it belongs in the hand of no other. But even if Ulther's blood did not flow in her veins, she would still be better than you or I, than any of us, and worthy of our loyalty. And there is one more thing you can be certain of—that we ride north with little chance of staving off the coming tide of darkness, yet also with the knowledge that someone must stand against it, and so it might as well be us.”
At last a breath of wind moved, blowing Durge's hair back from his craggy brow. He gazed northward—not at the knights of Embarr, but past them.
“It is not prevailing against the dark that matters, Sir Vedarr, for every day good and strong men are defeated by hate, fear, anger, and deceit—and by the ones who are slaves to such things.” He pressed his right hand to his chest. “It is not defeating evil that makes us good at heart. It is simply choosing to stand against it.”
Durge bowed his head, his shoulders stooped, his laughter gone. The only sound that broke the silence was the sigh of the wind through dry grass. All gazed at the knight, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to break the silence. Tears froze against Grace's cheeks, but she could not move a hand to wipe them away, and her heart was so swollen with love that she nearly couldn't bear the agony of it.
A small form slipped from the saddle before Grace, landing lightly on the ground. Tira. The wind tangled through her fiery hair as she padded barefoot to Durge. She coiled her hand inside the knight's and looked up at him with her scarred face.
“Good,” she said, then gave a firm nod. “Good.”
Durge knelt on the ground and hugged the small girl. She threw her arms around him, burying her face against his neck.
Now the wind picked up, rushing over the ridgetop, and it was as if fear and doubt were blown away by it. Grace dismounted and moved to stand above Durge and Tira, a hand on each of them. She looked up at Sir Vedarr.
“So what will you do?” she said.
Vedarr gazed at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable, then he drew a knife from his belt and held it before him. So was that his choice? Death?
Before she could wonder more, Vedarr turned the knife and pressed the tip of it against his shield. With slow, deliberate motions, he scraped away the white paint of the grinning skull. When he was done, he turned his horse around and held his shield aloft. The five nearby Embarrans gazed at him with shining eyes, and a great roar of approval went up from the rest of the knights on the slope below, a cheer echoed by Grace's army.
Vedarr turned his horse around. “We will follow you north, Your Majesty.” He glanced at Durge. “Not to defeat evil, but to stand against it.”
“Thank you,” Grace said. It was all she could think of.
“I'll inform my men of the change in their mission,” Vedarr said. He wheeled his charger around and rode back down the slope, his five knights pounding after him.
Grace turned around. Durge had stood, and he held Tira in his arms. His brown eyes were deep and thoughtful.
“You are a good man, Durge of Embarr,” Grace said softly, and she meant it with all her heart. “Nothing that happens will ever change that.” She reached a hand toward him. “You understand that, don't you?”
“Come, my lady,” he said, his voice gruff. “It's time to ride north.”
33.
Dr. Ananda Larsen leaned forward in the desk chair and drummed her fingers beside the computer keyboard. The writeable disk drive whirred as a progress bar crept across the screen. Fifty-seven percent.
“Come on,” she whispered, her face bathed in the ghostly phosphorescence of the monitor.
For the last three weeks, she had been timing how long it took the security guard to make a complete round of the building. The average was just over twenty-three minutes with a standard error of two minutes. She glanced at the wall clock. It had been exactly sixteen minutes since the guard had walked past the lab and she had darted in behind him.
It wasn't unusual for researchers to be in Building Five after hours; many experiments, particularly those involving PCR gene sequencing, required observation around the clock. However, regulations required that the researcher notify security first, and she was not about to tell the guard what she was up to.
Her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses slipped down her nose; she pushed them back into place. Seventy-eight percent.
Maybe she should have chosen a few files instead of copying the entire directory. Except there hadn't been time to sort through everything during the day. Dr. Adler was always looking over her shoulder, curious what she was doing—and no doubt hoping to see something he could use. As far as she could tell, Barry Adler had never had an original scientific thought in his life; all he could do was steal from others.
And that's what makes him perfect for this place, Ananda. Duratek doesn't create anything—you've seen that. All it ever does is copy the work of others, then dispose of the ones who created it.
As they would dispose of her the moment they learned what she was doing. But they would have done it soon enough anyway. After all, if they got their hands on what she had learned today, they wouldn't need her anymore.
The computer emitted a chime, and Larsen nearly jumped from her seat as a tray popped out, bearing a silvery minidisk. She took the still-warm disk, snapped it inside a case, and slid it into the pocket of her lab coat. She typed a command on the keyboard and pressed Enter. A new message appeared on the screen.
Deleting . . .
They would have archived versions of the files, but the backup programs didn't run until after midnight, which meant they would never be able to recover today's results. And it was the data Larsen had collected that afternoon that had finally convinced her to go forward with her plan.
Last October, after the sudden and violent ter
mination of the project she had been working on in Denver, Duratek had transferred her here, to their facility just outside Boulder, and had placed her on a new project. At first, after what she had witnessed in Denver, research had been the last thing on her mind. However, over the course of the last five months, her need to learn and discover had returned, and she had immersed herself in her new work. No doubt they had been counting on that. It was why they had hired her in the first place.
Until last October, working for Duratek had been the pinnacle of her career. In Denver, Larsen had been part of an incredible project: a member of a team studying two extraworldly beings. True, she had never interacted directly with the being cataloged as E-1. However, she had read the reports, had seen the test results, and had sequenced its blood. It was more than enough to convince her that what they said was true—that this creature was alien to Earth.
Less alien in appearance was the other subject, E-2, with whom she had worked more closely. He had looked like a Viking warrior transported from another century. Only it was another world he had come from, just like the being E-1.
At the time, it appeared all her choices had been vindicated. Even in graduate school, her views had been too radical for the musty world of academia. Her idea to use gene therapy to enhance the mental functioning of nonhuman mammals had made the professors on her committee squeamish. They had granted her a doctorate simply to get rid of her.
However, someone had been interested in her work, for soon after graduation, she had gotten a call from Duratek. Her advisor had told her she was making a grave error going to work for a private corporation instead of staying in the academic world. But the representatives from Duratek had been the only ones who were willing to fund the work she wanted to do.
Even then, she had known that Duratek was not a charity organization, that ultimately they were interested in her research because they believed they could profit from it, but it had been easy to forget that fact in the course of her work. They gave her a lab filled with state-of-the-art sequencing machines and computers—light-years beyond the shoddy equipment she had been forced to scrounge for in graduate school. They had bought her expensive research animals, from the first lemurs and monkeys all the way to Ellie, her chimpanzee.
